


DISSONANCE

by fallingmuffins



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Explicit Language, F/M, Introspection, Memory Loss, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Paranoia, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, Substance Abuse, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingmuffins/pseuds/fallingmuffins
Summary: ❝It's been fifteen days since I tried to kill myself.❞She appears in his life when everything hits rock-bottom. Granted, rock-bottom is a reoccurring theme in Elliot Alderson's life, but when he can't remember what exactly landed him in Greystone Psychiatric Hospital, he finds himself feeling more lost than he ever has.A hum, a candy bar, and a relapse ignites an unexplainable connection between two conflicting patients. Unbreakable bonds are formed, detrimental secrets are unearthed, and although Elliot Alderson is omnipotent behind the screen, the crash may prove catastrophic in the end.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	DISSONANCE

**It's been fifteen days since I tried to kill myself.**

That's what Darlene says happened. I guess I have to take her word for it, since I don't remember doing it. I just know that there was silence. I know, I should be concerned with my lack of memory, but this isn't the first time I've forgotten. At least, according to Darlene.

What little I do remember is entirely worth forgetting; all encompassing solitude, so _fucking_ heavy I could feel it even when I didn't have a body _._ When I floated in whatever abyss takes over when your brain stops firing circuits to the motherboard. She says it was five minutes; five whole minutes my heart stopped pumping blood and my program crashed. It was catastrophic, but a reboot of three-thousand volts was a sufficient kickstart. 

Those five minutes felt like eons, and I realized that an eternity of being alone is the cruelest hell any fallacious religion could conjure up. 

I keep that thought pinned as I step into the common area, a herd of appointed white scrubs scattered around the room, sluggish in their movements _—_ ghosts, shells. There's too many people, too many faces, and the anticipation of being seen itches beneath my skin like needles. 

"Elliot." 

It's strange; being surrounded by so many people and feeling so utterly alone all at once. Ms. Krista had said something like that, back during our first session. I think it's a mandatory aphorism on the psychologists checklist; ten steps to piece together the patient, troubleshooting procedures to work toward the root of the problem _—_ I don't think she ever reached the root of the problem. 

I don't even know the root of the problem.

"Elliot?" 

The weight on my shoulder is too warm, invading, tangible. I shirk away from the hand, turning just enough to dart my eyes over the nurses face before focusing in on a sign posted to the wall. 

**COMMON AREA**

**SUPERVISION REQUIRED**

"I know this might be overwhelming, but integration is a good way to improve mental stability. Remember the rules we went over, on the way here?" She asks, sidestepping enough to draw my attention to her face. 

It's hard to look directly at her, so I don't. She keeps up, her attention not faltering once, and I give a small nod in hopes she'll leave me alone. 

"You have to say something Elliot. I can't let you into gen-pop without a bit of confidence on your end." 

She just keeps pushing. It's like I can see the cogs in her head going; _should I take him back to his room? Does he need more time alone? Perhaps up the dosage on daily meds, because that_ is _the customary response when a patient hasn't quite reached obedient._

Regardless, being alone is everything I want and everything that terrifies me all at once, and that infuriating dichotomy seems to be the only thing that drives me onwards. 

Onwards into what? 

This insanity, this endless loop of reaching out for connection and retreating quick as though that human interaction physically burns? Because that's what insanity is _—_ doing the same thing, over and _over_ again and expecting different results. Maybe I'm right where I belong, after all. 

"Okay." 

It's all I care to muster. There's no confidence in it, there usually isn't, and I don't have the ambition to conjure any up for the sake of _nurse Caroline._ I think it's enough, though. Her expression softens into one of pity. I may not be inherently social, but I can see practiced empathy like a pop-up warning; clear as day. 

"Good _—good,_ Elliot _."_ She smiles, too much enthusiasm for comfort. I think it might be the first time I've said anything to her, I honestly can't remember. 

She leaves me alone after that. 

I guess I should be content with that, but something about her leaving makes me feel like I'd lost whatever anchor I did have. A modicum of familiarity, even if it's the personification of the mental health system I've grown to detest.

Nurse Caroline is just my drug dealer, right now. She's not even pushing the good shit. She's peddling Fluoxetine, Zoloft, Prozac. Might as well be sugarpills. I'm actually pretty sure they _are_ sugar pills. 

My tongue tucks between my upper lip and teeth, tasting the residue from the meds I'd taken earlier that morning. 

I can feel the beginnings of an urge. It starts at the fingertips, static that stipples with the thought of something stronger, dredged up to the surface like a shoebox of paraphernalia hidden beneath the floorboards. My nose itches suddenly, an intangible drip slithering down the back of my throat. I think of the way a parched man feels when he's crawling through the sand and sees a mirage of an oasis in the distance; I don't see the mirage. I know it's here, though. Hidden somewhere in these white paneled walls.

Nurse Caroline works the small time deals. I need to find something stronger. 

A motive is what I need, a task to complete. My thoughts, displaced and disembodied, gradually come back to me. It feels like taking a seat at the control panel, senses return like flipping the switches on a circuit board; the material of my white scrubs feel like sandpaper, stiff and coarse, whittling away at my skin as I finally take a step forward. 

The common area is loud, voices overlaying one another, smashed together to create a wave of insanity in sound. I see people talking to no one, hushed whispers beneath boisterous exclamations, the shuffling of shoes against the linoleum floor, and humming. My brain focuses in on that, barely audible beneath the chaos. 

Working my way further into the room is easier than I thought. A crowd of eyes and not a single one of them are focused on reality, and if they are, they're focused in on another plane of reality; the quiet ones read books, tucked away in their own bubble of isolation. A small group had formed around the television, mesmerized by some iteration of _The Wizard of Oz_. 

_'I know I'm not the wizard you expected, but I might be the wizard that you need.'_

This whole place smells like a fishbowl concoction of industrial cleaner. Clouds of individual body odor, significant to each single person I pass makes me feel like I'm trekking through a haze of toxic fumes. I shrink away instinctively when a man with empty eyes brushes against my shoulder in passing, wringing his hands harshly and muttering to himself. I can't help but look back at him when he goes; he's unaware, he probably didn't even recognize me as a person. 

I envy the disconnect from reality he clearly harbors. 

The room isn't large, but the amount of people jam-packed into the area makes it feel endless, and I can't tell if it's in my head or herd mentality that has everyone I pass move in slow motion. It's like a fever-dream, and the further I venture into the crowd, the heavier it feels. Then I hear it again, the humming. It's closer now, and I follow it with a touch of passive eagerness, letting it guide me through the maze of empty faces. 

It's probably some made up song by another patient, humming to themselves as they pull out their hair with some perturbing meticulousness, one strand at a time—I stop, and I don't think about it when I pull the chair away from the table. It's one of many, lining the furthest most wall beneath the windows (they're locked, I note). Without my hoodie my hands are lost, fingers curling into the stiff material of my pants. 

The humming stops. It's oddly appropriate, like deducing the bomb in _minesweeper_ , carefully treading the surrounding area until it's located. 

She's not pulling her hair out, or swaying in her chair manically. Being surrounded by absent stares makes it startlingly prominent how present _her_ stare is. That, and the obvious fact that she's looking right at me; not through me, or past me, but _at_ me. With that realization comes the familiar sensation of anxiety, worming its way up my spine, itching beneath my skin. 

I look away from her face, down to her hands. Her fingers are curled over something red on the table, bars on a cage, keeping the unwanted out, whatever it is inside safe. 

"It's like the crazies have a fucking sixth sense or something, I swear." She huffs. 

She's glaring at me now, and I'm starting to wonder if she's just good at _hiding_ her brand of crazy. I don't know what she's talking about, and she rolls her eyes when I respond with a questioning tilt of my head. 

"You can't expect people to just give you want you want. Not without a bargaining chip of your own. S'not how the world works." 

She takes on a lecturing tone, I remain completely bewildered. I'm sure whatever face I'm making right now conveys that pretty well, because she lets out a sigh through her nose and leans over the table conspiratorially. 

"The thing about this place, the main running theme with these guys _—_ " she stage whispers, her eyes darting around behind me, looking at nothing and everything before suddenly settling pointedly on me. I try to resist the urge to look away. " _Envy_." 

She says it like it's a secret, like it's not obscenely blatant how power hungry society is, like _she_ is the only one who's come to this conclusion. It's a common denominator I've long since discovered; the innate urge to have everything, to be the one on top, to _control_. 

I guess it only makes sense to find it here, too. It's not cyber-warfare on a global scale, but the compartmentalization of human greed seeping into the cracks of society, making itself present even in a place where reality is second-hand, sanity spoon-fed. 

I think she can tell what I'm thinking. Impossible, I know, but the way she looks at me makes me think it's _completely_ possible. And even if it weren't, what difference would it make? I'm in a nuthouse—I'm crazy.

"You know it, too." She leans back, her mouth open in a half-grin. I can see her tongue run over the ridges of her front teeth before disappearing back into her mouth. "Which raises the question, stranger _—are you a cog in the machine?_ Are you here because you envy what I have, and you want it for yourself?"

"I don't know what you have." I counter. 

Her brows shoot up. Leaning further back in her chair, she curls her fingers around whatever it is in her hands, sliding it toward her until it's hidden under the table. 

"Well, look at you. Got a bit more sense than the locals, don'tcha?" She's smirking again, her tone laden with sarcasm. "You know what...thinking about it, I don't think I've seen you around here before." 

I shift in my seat, the subject change abrupt. I don't want to talk about how I got here, what I did. I'm positive that's where she's shifting the conversation to; anecdotes are a hot topic in a place like this. I can feel the firewalls rising, blocking out that stream of information like boarding up a burning house in the face of intrusion.

With a raise of my chin, I glance toward her lap. "What is it?"

"You didn't answer my question. Misdirection is easy to pick up on around here. _Usually_ reserved for pretentious psychologists." She rebukes. 

"How can I envy something I don't understand?" I return. 

"Certainly hasn't stopped most people. How many people envy freedom, without understanding the repercussions of solitude?" 

"You said the _psychologists_ were pretentious?" 

Shit. I said that out loud. 

Her expression downturns, unamused. "Alright, fine. I'll bite." 

"What?" 

Bite what? What is she getting at? 

She's either playing this up for theatrics sake, or she has something genuinely interesting in her hands. Judging by the entire situation, I'm inclined to believe the former. 

"I'll show what I have, if you tell me something about yourself." She brings a hand up from beneath the table, gesturing between us. 

"That's not—"

"Is that too conformist for you? Would you rather go about your day, _your life_ , never knowing what I have?" 

She looks like she's actively refraining from smiling. I'm smart enough to acknowledge she's fucking with me, but I'm also smart enough to know it's working. 

"The ego is strong in this one." She tacks on, slumping back once more and peering down at her lap. She's not bothering to hide her grin anymore, it's splitting her face. 

I can feel my resolve crumble, my shoulders slumping with the elongated sigh that escapes me.

"What do you wanna know?" 

I can tell it's not the reaction she was anticipating. Maybe I sound bored, lack of interest is a common symptom of depression, after all. 

"Maybe consider holding your ground a little longer next time. Kinda disappointing, not gonna lie." She remarks, giving an unimpressed quirk of her brow. 

I can't help it, I roll my eyes. "This is loony-bin small-talk, not exactly riveting." 

" _'Not exactly riveting'_ is the theme of the day here, Bugs. And everyday here is the same, _fucking_ , day." She swivels back in, turning her head with a small quirk. "Here I was thinking you'd be a breath of fresh air—offer up something with a bit more _substance_. Figures, you're in the loony-bin for a reason. Maybe you're suffering a severe case of the _insipid_." 

"Is that what you want to know?" I bite back. 

It's unintentional, on the verge of a shout. I can see a couple of other patients in my peripheral, turning to glance our way. Instinctively, I reach for the hood that's been a constant over my head. It's not there, my hands slip over my hair before falling in my lap. She purses her lips in a contemptuous smirk, her fingers drumming against the stainless steel of the table. 

"No, not really. As _interesting_ as I'm sure that is," she does an intentional once over, "I think I'll stick with the running theme. In return for letting you see what I've got... I want to know your name." 

"That's it?"

There's no way that's it. There has to be more to it, more to _her_. She's in a psychiatric hospital, but she's not an idiot—that much is obvious. I can feel the instinct to keep forethought at the helm; neuron powered virus detection. 

Paranoia. Miss Krista touched on the topic during our third session. 

"Does that cross the invisible line? Please, don't infringe on the rules for my sake, Bugs." I turn my attention to her face, holding it there through the sheer strength of confusion. She nods and points in the direction of the sign on the wall. "It's number three: _respect personal boundaries, to each other...and yourself_. It's only like a government institution to place rules on autonomy." 

A beat passes, I look away, and another goes. Then she sighs, and slaps her hand ostentatiously against the tabletop.

She's leaving. I don't know if I want her to go, yet. 

" _Sheeple_. Enjoy being part of the herd." She goes to stand, and I stutter to react. 

There's a flickering somewhere in my brain that's remained dormant for far too long. I can't configure it exactly, but I can feel it. Déjà vu, but where does that string of thought connect? 

Maybe it's just the sensation of human connection. I thought that line of coding was corrupt.

"E-Elliot." I avoid her face, I can materialize the self-satisfied smirk painting her lips without looking.

"My name is Elliot." 


End file.
